Heroes
by anonymousheart
Summary: Life isn't easy. Everyone knows that. For Charlie Brooke, a young, talented artist with a dangerous secret, life seems impossible. But sometimes, having a superhero to watch over you can make life seem not so bad.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

The street was loud as she made her way through the afternoon traffic, her hand clenched on the strap of her bag as she struggled to keep it on her shoulder. People she didn't know and never would know jostled her as they pushed their way to their destinations. She walked more slowly, in no hurry to return. It wasn't like she'd be missed.

Around her, the world was a whirlwind of discord. The sound of voices mingling with that of machinery, and the light from the shops at her left mixed and blurred with the colors of peoples' clothes. She looked up at the overcast sky and grimaced, asking herself: _How long has it been since I last saw the stars?_ Looking back at the crowd in front of her, she shook her head. _Too_ _long_, she thought wearily. _Far too long_.

She turned and made her way into the alley between two buildings. The familiar sign in front of her made her feel secure, like she was finally home. Even if home was actually a small apartment in one of the oldest buildings in Manhattan, about half an hour's walk away. _Amy's Art Supply and Comic Shop_. A bell chimed as she stepped inside, breathing in the musty smell of paper and ink. She relaxed. This was where she belonged.

The guy behind the counter grinned at her. "Hey, you," he said playfully.

She forced a smile. "Hey," she replied softly. He wore the same nametag as ever, and even though she already knew his name, she glanced at it out of habit as she walked towards the art supplies. _Jake_.

To her relief, he didn't say anything else as she disappeared into the paint section and seized a few jars of paint. A nice ruby red. An inky black. And the one she needed most for the painting she was working on: gold. _Amy's _was the only store she'd found that carried a color that she thought was deserving of the label 'gold'.

There were two left on the shelf. She took one, knowing it was all she needed, and paused. The one behind it wasn't gold at all. It was silver, a color she'd never seen on the shelves before. She didn't need it. But the liquid inside was almost as beautiful as actual melted silver. It was the quality that had drawn her to the gold paint in the first place.

Taking the jar, she walked back to the register. Jake was still smiling as he priced everything out. He attempted to make conversation with her, just friendly small talk, but she only stayed long enough to receive her change. As always.

It was even louder than before as she started the walk back home. Like the other New Yorkers were trying to see who could be the most obnoxious. An entire group of them were clustered around a newspaper stand snapping at each other over the headline. "What do they think they're doing!" she heard one man snarl. "SHIELD fell months ago, they were compromised by an enemy that we were supposed to have defeated decades ago! Now they're trying to re-form?"

"Their sole purpose is to protect the American people," another one snapped back. "Trying to re-form is to keep us safe. Besides, they've eradicated all those double agents. We're safe now."

"Still, you never know," a woman pointed out darkly. "Some may have slipped away unnoticed. Besides, that organization is based on secrets and lies. Why should we trust them when they know more than we ever will?"

"It says Tony Stark is helping them," one noted. "Right here! He's donating the agency funds to help rebuild."

"Tony Stark is a crackpot!" an old woman seethed. "He and his 'Avengers' or whatever they're called. Poisoning our youth with all that violence."

"The Avengers saved Manhattan," a man said. "Hawkeye pulled me and my son out of an overturned bus. If it wasn't for them, millions of people would be dead." They continued arguing, all of them, but she just hunched her shoulders and moved on. That was none of her business, and none of theirs either. Maybe if SHIELD re-formed, she could escape—

Her thoughts – the entire street, in fact – were brought to an abrupt halt by a woman's piercing scream.

She turned, wide-eyed, and the wind was driven from her lungs as something big slammed into her midsection. She was thrown back into the pavement as the man in black groaned and went limp across her stomach. She recognized him immediately from a grainy picture on the television months before. Hawkeye, the archer who helped defend Manhattan from an alien invasion.

"_Clint!_" a woman yells, sounding far away. It's a different voice than the one who screamed, but it's just as terrified.

She pushed herself up and stared at the thing that had thrown him. A huge, humanoid machine, with a red skull emblem on its chest landed in the middle of the street, cracking the pavement. The thing stomped towards them, crushing cars under its huge metal feet. People charged off in the opposite direction, screaming bloody murder and not stopping to help her or the famed archer.

Swallowing a wave of fear, she seized the archer by the quiver on his back and dragged him towards the nearest doorway, the bow clattering to the concrete all but forgotten. Unfortunately, it was the one shop on the street that wasn't open. As the machine's giant foot slammed down on the bow, she winced at the sound it made as it was crushed. Then the thing turned on her and Hawkeye.

Her heart pounded as she dropped her bag next to the unconscious man and ran. She could distract it long enough for the other Avengers to get there, she knew. They could save Hawkeye. That was all that really mattered. He was a hero – he mattered. She was just a girl in the wrong place at the wrong time. Besides… it would only take one swipe from the machine's giant metal arms or a single stomp to end her short, agonizing life. And wasn't that what she wanted? An escape?

Suddenly, there was a grinding screech of metal on metal, and the thing _jumped_ high over her head and landed in front of her, turning to face her. She backed away, into the building behind her. She pressed her back flat against the cold stone. Her eyes started to close instinctually, but she forced them open again. As if in slow motion, the machine lifted its giant metal foot and started to bring it down towards her skull.

For the second time that day, she was thrown aside. But this time, she was being saved. Metal arms tightened around her as she was lifted into the air. "Gotcha!" a voice from behind her said triumphantly.

"Iron Man?" she whispered.

"That's me," he replied, slowly descending and setting her gently back on her feet back at the doorway. "Thanks for saving the idiot with the arrows, by the way, but I think we can take it from here. Stay safe," he said. Then he took off and went to challenge the robot.

She stood silently, watching as the other Avengers rallied, facing the machine. Thor, Captain America, and Iron Man began turning the contraption to metal ribbons. The Hulk was nowhere to be seen, but he clearly wasn't needed anyway. She turned and picked up her bag, glancing at the woman kneeling next to Hawkeye. The Black Widow, looking him over with concern. "Where do you think you're going?" the redhead growled. But she was distracted as the archer stirred.

She took off running quietly. She was already late. When she was late, she got punished. And the punishments were always very… severe.

* * *

><p>As soon as Clint came to, he knew something was wrong. The sound of fighting from down the street met his ears, and he could make out Thor yelling in pain and rage. Natasha was giving him "the look" – the one that clearly meant "I'm sorry." His entire body felt like it had been bruised, and he was pretty sure he'd broken a rib or two.<p>

Then he reached for an arrow and realized that he had no bow to shoot with. He met Natasha's green gaze and hoarsely asked, "Where is it?"

She sighed and turned, pointing to the sidewalk a few meters away. There, lying in shattered fragments, was his beloved bow. Slowly and unsteadily, Clint got to his feet and walked over to it. Natasha followed him closely, and he could see her out of the corner of his eye, struggling to keep from reaching out to support him. But she held herself back, which he appreciated.

Clint knelt, falling heavily to his knees. His fingers curled around the grip of his bow, lifting it off of the concrete. How had it been destroyed so completely? He doubted he'd be able to fix it. He doubted anyone would be able to fix it. Tony might be able to, but Clint knew he wouldn't want to. It would be easier just to make a new one, and Tony didn't like wasting time. But the bow had sentimental value. Clint had carried it through the Battle of Manhattan, most of his SHIELD missions, Budapest… It was like an old friend. He sighed and began picking up the broken pieces of the bow, sliding them securely into his quiver. Natasha hesitated before kneeling next to him and helping gather all the shards.

There was a crash from down the street as the HYDRA machine slammed Iron Man out of the sky. Clint winced at the sound of Tony's brand new suit crumpling from the force of the robot's swing. An electrical storm crackled overhead as Thor summoned lightning, and Clint shielded his eyes from the blast. When the light faded, the drone, its systems fried, toppled with a metallic groan.

While Natasha ran ahead to help Tony from the rubble of what had been a sushi shop, Clint studied the machine. It was dented all over and covered in burn marks from the combination of Thor's lightning and Tony's repulsors. It had taken quite the beating before finally falling – which was not a good sign. If HYDRA had more of these robots, the Avengers would be overwhelmed.

"That was more dangerous than expected," Steve noted, frowning at Clint as he came to stand next to the archer. "You alright, soldier?"

"I'm fine," Clint grumbled. He rolled his shoulders trying to rid himself of the stiffness in his neck. "Just a few scrapes and bruises, maybe a broken rib or two. It's nothing I can't handle." He looked down at his boots. "It stepped on my bow though."

"We saw. I'm sorry about that. Do you think you can fix it?" Steve asked, concerned.

"No," Clint said bitterly. "Tony might be able to, but he'll be busy with his suit. I'm going to have to get a new one."

Cap looked like he wanted to say something, but then Tony gave a yell as Natasha and Thor pulled him loose from the sushi bar. "You okay, Stark?" Steve called as he and Clint ran to meet the others.

"I hit my head," Tony muttered. "My helmet came off during the fight. It shouldn't have done that…"

"Well, it did," Natasha said calmly, "And you're perfectly fine, so we aren't going to worry about it right now."

Tony cursed under his breath and gazed down at his new armor. "Mark 19's a dud," he said, as if half to himself. "I'm gonna have to start from scratch… Where'd I drop that helmet?"

"Stark," Cap warned, "Everyone's exhausted. We can't stay around long, we need to get back to the tower."

"But… my helmet. What if someone finds it?" Tony said. "I can't afford to let it fall into the wrong hands!"

"We'll have Jarvis do a scan for it later," Natasha suggested. "Let's just go."

Reluctantly, Tony shrugged. "Okay…" he mumbled. He started to take a step forwards, then paused, a confused look on his face. "Where's that girl?" he asked. "I thought she was with you."

"What girl?" Clint asked, startled when Natasha gave a curse in Russian.

"The girl you fell on, Clint," Natasha informed him, sounding tired. "After we got here, she bolted. I didn't see where she went. I was watching Clint."

"Great. Just great." Tony shook his head. "I hope she wasn't hurt or anything."

"Well she felt good enough to run away, Stark," Natasha snarled. "I'm sure she was fine."

"Both of you, knock it off," Steve ordered. "You're being childish. If Natasha says the girl was fine, then she was fine. Tony, we'll find your helmet later. Right now we have to get back to the tower and rest. That fight was way more difficult than we anticipated, and we're all worse for wear."

So, obediently, they began to make their way back to Avenger's Tower, Tony being half-carried-half-dragged by Thor, Steve with a slight limp, and Clint and Natasha taking up the rear. The SHIELD response team, the only branch of the agency currently back in working order, was already on the scene, clearing away debris and the broken robot. It would be gone in a matter of hours, no evidence of an attack at all. Clint was secretly relieved they didn't have to deal with it. It was so much easier just to show up and fight and not have to clean up the mess afterwards.

Clint didn't pay attention as Steve stopped and told an agent to keep an eye out for Iron Man's head. He didn't pay attention when they were walking back to the tower and people stopped and pointed, staring at the Avengers. He didn't even pay attention when they got to the tower and Pepper began to fuss over them (mostly Tony, though no one minded that much).

He only began to focus again when he dropped his quiver onto the couch and heard the pieces of his bow rattling around inside. His heart fell, and he carefully removed all the shards and set them on the coffee table. For a while he just sat and arranged the pieces to where they'd originally gone, like a puzzle. He could hear Pepper and Natasha watching, murmuring in concerned voices, but he didn't mind their watching. He just cared about his broken bow.

Finally, Natasha walked up behind him almost silently and put her hands on his shoulders. "Clint," she said, her voice gentle. Clint put his head in his hands, hunching his back. Natasha sighed and climbed gracefully over the back of the couch to sit next to him. "Clint, we're worried about you. You haven't said or done anything since we got back."

Clint nodded into his hands and said nothing.

"Clint, please?" her voice was soft. "Just… say something. I need to know you're okay." She was trying to manipulate him, he could tell. Trying to guilt him into talking to her and getting over the loss of his bow. Clint didn't want to talk to her. He didn't want to do anything.

She began to murmur to him in Russian, trying to pull his hands away from his face to look into his eyes. "Just look at me," she begged. "Look me in the eyes and tell me if you're okay." She sounded really scared, now. "Please."

He stopped resisting as she pulled his hands away. She was looking at him with those anxious green eyes, and he met her gaze reluctantly. "Clint?" she asked.

"I'm fine," Clint replied. He shrugged. "It… it was just a bow. I'll get over it."

Natasha seemed satisfied with his answer. "That's good," she said, her voice once again back to its normal, businesslike tone. "I was afraid we were going to have to call a doctor."

"Yeah, well," Clint said, rolling his shoulders, "This is nothing. I've been through worse."

She gave him a rare smile. "I know," she said, kissing him on the cheek lightly, so fast he wasn't even sure it had happened. "Believe me, Clint, I know."

* * *

><p>The city was once again bustling with activity by the time she turned onto her street. She was almost fifteen minutes late. As she approached the building, she found herself being marched in, one big man on either side of her. They said nothing to her, as always. They weren't allowed to talk most of the time. She shivered and wondered what was possibly going on that he would feel the need to make sure she didn't run away.<p>

They led her up the wide, creaking wooden stairs towards the top floor, where she knew he was waiting. One in front, one behind. The other men in the stairwell, most of whom were smoking weed while waiting for orders, wolf-whistled and smirked at her. She shuddered when one reached out as if to touch her, but the man behind her lashed out and smacked his hand away. None of the others were either brave or stupid enough to try anything.

The first man opened the door to her room and closed it swiftly behind her. She averted her eyes and braced herself, wincing as the man waiting for her slapped her. "Where've you been?" Damon snapped. "You were supposed to be back twenty minutes ago."

"There was a…" she halted. What she was going to say would be unbelievable. "I was held up," she said, her voice trembling. "I'm sorry."

"'Held up?'" Damon's voice took a sharp edge. "By who? What happened?"

"I'm sure it's on the news," she said. "Something to do with that out group, SHIELD." She hoped her explanation sounded good enough. And there _had_ been SHIELD vans swarming the place when she'd ran.

"SHIELD," he said slowly. Disapprovingly. He shook his head. "Governmental freaks, huh? Whatever." He turned and marched further into the room, gesturing grandly to the canvas on her easel. The half-finished painting was far from complete, nowhere near satisfaction. "I need this done by tonight," he said.

"That's – that's not possible," she said, shaking her head. Her heart began to beat faster. "I need at least two days to make it even remotely satisfactory."

"Look, sweetheart," he growled. "'Remotely satisfactory' for you is a masterpiece to the buyer. You—" he raised his voice so suddenly she almost jumps back, "—are a perfectionist. Perfection is not the goal here, doll." His eyes got a hungry gleam in them. "Profit is. Understood?"

She swallowed. "Okay."

"Excellent. Don't be afraid to cut corners, sweetie. No one will notice a couple flaws. This stuff is original work, not forgeries. It doesn't have to be perfect." He began to walk away, towards the door, and she scrambled to get out of his way. "Oh, and doll?" She met his eyes hesitantly. "Get it done tonight."

As the door slammed and locked behind him, she released the breath she didn't know she'd been holding. "Tonight," she said out loud to the room. "Okay. You've got it." But when she looked at the painting, a feeling of dread settled in her stomach. Art – real art, that is – should never be rushed. This was just another beautiful painting that would be ruined by Damon's greed.

_They say the root of all evil is money_, her mom had once told her. But, as her mother had told her many years before, that wasn't the case. _If you ask me, money itself is not the root of all evil_, Mom had said._ It is the _love_ of money that is the real problem_. She could believe that.

She got to work immediately, knowing that if the painting wasn't finished when Damon wanted it, he would hurt her. As she worked, the sky cleared a little bit, and she could see the sun slowly setting in the big, ancient windows, her time dwindling away. She hated not having time.

The painting was finished right as the time on the digital clock on her shelf of supplies flicked to 11:02. She stood back and swallowed, gazing at the finished product. Uneven brush strokes, blurred outlines – how could anyone appreciate it? The scene she'd painted, a barren meadow, looked nothing like the picture she'd been trying to recreate.

Heart in her throat, she walked slowly to the door and opened it slowly. She nodded to the men leaned against the wall opposite the door on guard duty. Their job was to not only keep her in the room, but to keep the atmosphere quiet for her. One of them, a skinny blonde with sagging jeans, pushed himself upright and walked down the hallway. She backed away, opening the door as Damon made his way down the hall with a group of other men.

They gathered around the easel, some with curious expressions, and compared the painting and the picture. She stood back, in front of the open door. She longed to slip away while they were busy, but she knew that there were still men on the stairs. Even if they didn't give her away, she wouldn't make it out the door.

Finally, one of the men – the buyer, judging on how he was the only man besides Damon who appeared to have showered in the past week – turned to her with an awed look in his eyes. "This is incredible," he said. "It looks exactly like the picture."

She didn't agree, but she couldn't disagree. He was the one buying. "I agree," Damon said, smiling at her, pleased. "This really is good. One of her best." _Not really_, she thought grimly, _and Damon knows it_. It was true. He'd seen her best paintings. And he'd sold them – all of them. Even the one she'd begged him to let her keep.

"I'll take it," the man was saying. "Payment up front."

"Excellent," Damon said, grinning wider.

She watched them leave, taking the still-drying piece down and carrying it away. Damon was the last man out, pausing to speak with her. "See? Not the best you've ever done, and he's still paying more for it than the original price." He smirked at the look of discomfort on her face. "Anyway – nice job, Charlie," he said.

She blinked, saying nothing as he left. No one called her by her name anymore. Not really. The men called her a variety of pet names. The people she encountered on the street paid her no attention. And most of the time, Damon acted like she didn't even exist.

Her mind went back to the day's earlier events. Jake the cashier trying to talk to her. Iron Man thanking her for saving his friend. That – a hero thanking _her_, acknowledging her existence as a human being – was incredible. She wondered briefly whether that would be the highlight of her life, or at least what remained of her life. Then her eyes fell on the package Damon had left on her easel, and her heart dropped to her stomach.

Slowly, she walked over to the package and peeled away the paper packaging. Inside was a blank canvas and a grainy, printed picture. A sticky note on the paper read: "_The picture was stolen by the Nazis during WWII – it's been missing ever since. You've got a month to make the fake. And it had better not look like a recreation. ~Damon_."

Charlie swallowed. One month to make a perfect recreation. How he would prove it was real when it was done with modern paints, she didn't know, but he'd figure out a way. He was a professional criminal. The leader of one of the most successful drug cartels in the United States. A thief and a liar. After all, a man who could steal a young artist and make her completely disappear off the face of the Earth had to know what he was doing.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Two weeks had passed since Charlie had been given her new assignment, and she was almost done with the painting. It really was a wonderful piece, done by some famous German artist whose name she couldn't pronounce. It was a picture of two playing children, very life-like, and Charlie had almost done it. However, the picture she'd been given had originally been black and white, recolored by the person who'd given it to Damon, so Charlie had no idea if she was getting the colors correct. It wasn't good for her nerves.

When she came to the very last part of the painting – the fireplace behind the children – she realized that she was out of the shade of orange to match the flames. Charlie knew that with some color-mixing, she could definitely make the color with the paints she had, but… Well, she wouldn't pass up any opportunity to get out of the apartment. The smell of marijuana smoke was starting to get unbearable.

She picked up her bag from the table next to her easel and slung it over her shoulder. Facing the door, she swallowed and walked out, trying to ignore the men standing guard outside. They watched her with empty eyes as she walked down the hallway, towards Damon's office. She was stopped at the doorway by Damon's guard, who glared down at her with narrowed eyes. "He's got an appointment right now," the guard growled.

"I need to speak with him," Charlie said, her voice unwavering by the intimidating stare she was being given.

"Doesn't matter. Wait until he's done."

Charlie grit her teeth. She had to get out of the smoke. Desperate times call for desperate – _dangerous_ measures. Part of her knew it could just end up getting her hurt, but she couldn't just wait anymore. "And when he's done," she said in a low voice, "I'll tell him that you prevented me from completing the work _he_ assigned me," she continued, feeling a surge of triumph as something like fear flickered in the man's eyes, "I think we both know how Damon treats his employees who are counterproductive."

Just as she'd hoped, the guard was intimidated. Intimidated enough to risk interrupting Damon. "Wait here," he ordered, though why he thought she would leave made no sense to Charlie. A few moments later, he returned, and Damon followed.

"What is it?" Damon growled, his fists clenched. "I'm meeting with a very important person right now, Charlie. There had better be a very good reason for this."

"I need paint," Charlie said simply, knowing better than to waste time apologizing.

Damon made a noise in the back of his throat. "You need paint," he growled. "So you interrupted my meeting."

"I'm almost done with the painting," she continued, feeling her heartbeat accelerate. _Please don't get angry_, she thought. _Please just let me get the paint_. After about ten seconds of silence in which Damon and the guard just looked at her, Charlie realized that she'd spoken aloud.

Right when she thought she was going to get a slap, Damon pulled his wallet out of his pocket. "Here," he said, handing her a twenty dollar bill. "Go. Get your paint. And while you're at it, get me a White Chocolate Mocha from Starbucks."

Charlie nodded and left quietly. She didn't look back, just kept walking. She was scared that if she did look back, Damon would change his mind and hit her. It had happened before. Charlie wasn't anxious for it to happen again.

There were more men on the stairs than usual, almost all of them smoking. The odor was horrible – a mix of marijuana and other unknown substances. Charlie didn't want to know what she was smelling. She just wanted to get out without too much trouble.

Unfortunately for her, however, she was a woman in a world of men. Big, scary men with tempers who saw women as playthings and property. "Hey, honey," one cackled at her, drawing the attention of the others. "What's a pretty little thing like you doing here, eh? Lost?"

The others began wolf-whistling and calling to her, baring their teeth in gruesome smiles. Charlie shuddered, repulsed. These men had been changed through addiction and years of serving Damon, she realized. They'd either lost most of their humanity or all of it. They were mindless, empty people, like zombies. Only, they had chosen this.

She flinched as one of them touched her shoulder, his fingers tightening on her shirt. "C'mon, baby. Pretty little thing like you ought to know to stay out of trouble. You've just wandered into the lion's den. And we wanna have some fun."

As horrible as that was, Charlie managed to keep her cool. She gave the man a cold look. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," she said calmly.

The men laughed at her. "And why not?" he chuckled. "What're you gonna do about it?"

"Me? I'm not going to do anything." The men looked confused. "But if Damon finds out you've been messing with his girl," she said, watching as understanding surfaced on their features, "Then I can't be held accountable for what _he_ does."

"Saul," one of the others said, his voice trembling, "let her go."

Saul didn't look happy about it, but he let Charlie go. "Bitch," he mumbled, sounding like a child who hadn't gotten his way.

"Sorry," Charlie said carelessly, continuing on her way down the stairs. The men flattened themselves against the walls to get out of her way, eyeing her with a mixture of annoyance, boredom, and cautious curiosity.

As soon as the door (reinforced and bullet-proof) closed behind her, Charlie walked away as fast as she could without running. Her heart was pounding. Someday, she knew, the men wouldn't care if she was Damon's "property," they'd just do what they wanted to, no matter the treat of punishment.

The road was crowded as usual with people trying to get from Point A to Point B. The air was clean – as clean as the air in a big city could be, and Charlie could smell fried food from the Chinese restaurant down the street, making her mouth water. She couldn't remember the last time she'd had a good meal. Not in the past five years, that was for certain. And probably not for the rest of her life.

Charlie turned onto the street _Amy's_ was on and blinked. The only sign that the Avengers had ever been there was the yellow _Caution!_ tape around the sushi shop. Charlie sighed. She'd never be able to forget that day, or think of the street the same. She turned into the alley with another sigh and shook her head. A metallic gleam from the corner behind the trash bins caught her eye.

Charlie looked around before approaching the trash cans cautiously. Squeezing behind one, she knelt, and her jaw dropped. There, in the filth of the four-century-old, eight-million-person city, lay one of the most beautiful things she'd ever seen. Dented and cracked down one of the eyes, Charlie was looking at Iron Man's helmet, the one he'd been wearing the day he saved her. The color had been scratched away in several places, and it didn't resemble any of its former glory, but to Charlie that just made it more beauteous.

_I wonder if he's been looking for it_, she wondered, _or even cares that it's missing_. Then she remembered why she was there. She needed paint.

She stood and turned away, but Charlie couldn't bear to leave it. _Even if Iron Man doesn't want it_, she decided, _it can't stay here_. So she turned back around, picked it up, and tucked it into her messenger back. It was heavier than she expected. But she would manage.

The chimes greeted her as always, and Jake looked up from the register and gave her the same smile as always. "Hey, you," he said.

"Hey." She smiled, a small, genuine smile, and walked into the paint aisle. The shade of orange she wanted was right where it was supposed to be, as planned. But there was also a jar of red that matched the color of the helmet. She took both and walked back to the cashier.

"This all you're getting today?" Jake asked, like always.

"Yep." Charlie paused. Then she said, "It's a nice day today."

Jake seemed taken aback before replying, an even bigger smile on his face, "Yeah. Yeah, it is." They continued chatting while he wrapped the glass jars in brown paper and put them into a brown paper bag. "So your name is Charlie," he said. "I've been wondering that for a while."

"Yep. Charlie Brooke." She returned his smile and took the paint from him.

"I hope you don't mind, Charlie Brooke," Jake said, "but I just have to ask you this." Charlie looked back at him. "Can I have your number?"

Charlie felt her smile falter. "Oh… I'm sorry. I don't have a phone."

"You don't have a phone?" Jake asked, incredulous.

"Nope." She gave a nervous laugh. "Crazy, huh? I just haven't gotten around to it, I guess."

Jake laughed too, making Charlie feel relieved. "Yeah, that's pretty crazy. To be honest, I didn't get a phone for the longest time, but once I got one, I knew exactly what all the fuss is about. The cell phone is really a great invention, let me just say that. When you do get one, you won't regret it."

She didn't know how to respond at first. Then, she said, "I guess the reason I put off getting a phone so long," she lied, "was because I didn't have anyone to call."

"Well…" Jake paused, giving her a shy smile, "you do now."

* * *

><p>Steve groaned and put his pillow over his face as Tony managed to scream even <em>louder<em> than before, his voice reverberating through the wall. "You don't understand! If HYDRA has it, we're dead! DEAD!"

It wasn't any better that Natasha was yelling, too. "Tony Stark, get over it! It's a helmet!"

"It's Stark Tech and it's missing!"

"You're thinking about this in a worst-case scenario! A million different things could have happened and you're bent on it being in the hands of a bunch of maniacs!"

Finally, Steve accepted that he wasn't going to get to sleep in any longer. Rolling out of bed and onto the floor, he stood and looked at himself in the mirror. He had dark circles under his eyes and a cut on his chest that had finally scabbed over late the night before, and his usually neat hair was ruffled and unruly. He was barely presentable, but as he'd learned from spending months with the others, a lot had changed over the past seventy years. The other Avengers wandered around the tower in their pajamas, and half the time Clint didn't even wear that much.

He stormed out into the living area and found himself looking at a scene from his nightmares. Bruce was standing half-behind the bar as if he was planning on having to run away. Clint and Pepper were standing behind the couches, as if unsure or unwilling to intervene. Thor was just standing next to the doorway looking at Mjolnir on the coffee table, like he was wondering whether or not the two fighting Avengers would notice if he summoned it to his hand.

"Thor, with me," Steve growled, not looking to see if the Asgardian followed.

"Steve, tell him he's being ridiculous!" Natasha snarled. Her skin was paler than usual, and her eyes were burning with anger.

Tony looked like he was going to explode, his skin the color of a tomato. He was about to say something else, but Steve interrupted in the only way he had the patience for.

He picked up Natasha easily, who gasped and started thrashing, and literally threw her back to Thor. "Hold this," he ordered, before turning to Tony. The genius gave a cry of protest as Steve picked him up by the waistband of his sweatpants and tossed Tony over his shoulder, carrying him over to Pepper and dropping him. As Clint and Pepper scrambled to catch him, Steve marched back to the middle of the room.

"I have been awake for two hours," Steve said, his voice dangerously calm. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bruce take another step behind the bar. "I have been awake for two hours, lying in bed, trying to sleep after Pepper told me to go back to bed this morning when I looked like a walking corpse. And I have not been able to get any sleep. Does anyone know why?" When no one answered, Steve yelled, "BECAUSE YOU ARE SCREAMING AT EACH OTHER!"

Natasha and Tony no longer looked angry. They looked stunned. "Now," Steve continued, once again quiet and calm, "here is how this is going to work. I am going to go for a walk. When I get back, you _will_ have been good little soldiers and worked this out between yourselves, or there will be consequences. Do I make myself clear?"

Natasha averted her eyes and nodded. Tony said nothing for a moment, but when Steve gave him a dirty look, Tony said, "Yes, Captain."

"Good," Steve said, satisfied. He walked out, up to his room, and to his closet. He didn't pay attention to what he was putting on, he just pulled on a pair of jeans and a random shirt, putting his wallet in his pocket. Lacing up his shoes tightly, he stood and grabbed his hair brush, running it through his hair a few times before switching it out for his toothbrush. When he looked in the mirror, he almost choked on his toothpaste.

One of the others, Natasha, probably, had slipped the t-shirt into his closet as a joke, because he never would have bought it himself. A navy blue with the emblem of his shield across the chest. Steve shook his head and sighed, about to take it off. He didn't want to seem self-centered. But something made him hesitate. Why shouldn't he wear it? Besides, it was a perfectly good shirt.

He pulled on a hoodie and walked out, to the elevator. "Take me back to earth, Jarvis," he said.

"_Certainly, Captain Rogers_," the computer's smooth voice replied. "_Going for a run?_"

"A walk, actually." The elevator began to descend quickly.

"_I wouldn't be gone for too long,_" Jarvis advised. "_It appears that we'll be getting some rain in about half an hour_."

"I'll be fine, I'm sure."

"_If you say so, sir_." The elevator came to a stop without a jolt, and the doors opened with a soft swish. "_Have a good walk, Captain Rogers_," Jarvis said from behind him as Steve walked towards the entrance of the lobby.

"Thanks, Jarvis," Steve called over his shoulder.

As soon as he left the building, Steve was engulfed in familiar sounds and smells, and he sighed, content. New York could be chaotic, but it was home. Steve had always loved the city. He thought back to the Battle of Manhattan, and how close he'd been to losing what was really the only permanent home he'd ever known.

For about twenty minutes, he just wandered through the streets, into a part of town where there was a lot of construction zones and not a lot of people. Then, just as Jarvis forewarned, it began to rain. But not only did it rain, it poured. Steve gave a soft groan and took shelter next to the nearest building, under an awning.

The temperature seemed to have dropped about ten degrees, and Steve zipped up his jacket. He was just pulling his hood up over his head when he noticed a young woman walking towards him. She was only wearing a t-shirt, and she looked like she was shivering madly in the sudden cold.

"Hey there," Steve called as she got closer. The woman slowed down, eyeing him cautiously. "You okay?" he asked.

"I'm… I'm fine," she replied, stopping when she was under the awning. "I just… I think I might be lost." Her shoulder-length brown hair was soaked, and she indeed was shivering, wearing a red t-shirt with no jacket, and was watching him with distrust.

"Where are you headed?" Steve asked politely.

"Starbucks," she answered. "You wouldn't happen to know where one is, do you?"

Steve chuckled. "Starbucks? Not near here, that's for sure. The construction goes on for several blocks."

She sighed and brushed a strand of her soaked hair from her pretty brown eyes. "Great," she mumbled, shaking her head. "Just great."

"There's one about ten minutes from here," he suggested. "I could show you, if you want." She hesitated, staring at him silently. "I don't bite," Steve joked.

"Alright," she said finally. "I do want to get out of the rain."

"Here," Steve said, taking off his hoodie.

She stared at it for a moment. "No, no… I'm fine," she said, shying away from him.

"You're shivering," Steve pointed out. "Take it."

Very reluctantly, it seemed, she took the jacket and pulled it on. "Thank you," she said quietly. "You look… familiar. Have we met before?"

Steve shrugged as they started to walk, ignoring the freezing droplets of rain as they landed on his bare arms. "Maybe. I doubt it," he said. "Though come to think of it, I may have seen you somewhere before…" It wasn't a lie. She _did_ look kind of familiar, like someone he'd caught a brief glimpse of on the street. He just couldn't place where he'd have seen her, though.

She didn't say anything after that.

After a long walk through the rain, the streets began to look less like an abandoned construction site and more like a busy city. People with their hoods and hats on, some carrying umbrellas, passed them by, and soon Steve and the young woman had to walk side-by-side to avoid losing each other. "Here it is," Steve said, opening the door for her. She murmured a thank you and went inside, Steve following closely.

The place was packed, with a long line and nowhere to sit. It was noisy, too, like everyone had something to say and wanted to be heard by the world. Steve stood next to her in the line, which moved surprisingly quickly. "What are you going to get?" he asked politely.

As if the question startled her, she didn't answer at first. Then she said, "I'm here to get a drink for my boss. He wanted a White Chocolate Mocha, or something."

"Nothing for yourself?"

"No. I wouldn't know what to get, I've never really been to Starbucks."

"Huh," Steve said. "Well, looks like we'll have to change that."

She looked at him with confusion and opened her mouth like she was going to say something else, but right then, the person in front of them finished ordering. "I'll have a Cappuccino," Steve said, "And she'll have a… an Espresso."

The young woman looked flustered, but she didn't argue all while Steve paid and they waited for their drinks. "Starbucks has good coffee," Steve said. "I'm sure you'll like it."

"Thanks," she answered quietly. There was a long pause where neither of them said anything. Then she asked, "Why are you doing this? You don't even know my name, we just met on the street."

Steve shrugged. "Well… I guess the reason I have is that there are a lot of people out there who don't really give a damn about anyone but themselves. I guess I try to do what I can for others just to prove that there are still some decent people in the world." She didn't say anything, so he continued, "I'm Steve Rogers, by the way."

"Charlie. Charlie Brooke." She looked at him and blinked. Her eyes got wide as she looked from his shirt to his face. "Oh my gosh! You're…" She lowered her voice when he smiled and put a finger to his lips. "You're Captain America."

"Sometimes," he replied. Grabbing their coffee off of the counter, he said, "But sometimes I'm just Steve." He held out the drink for her, and she took it, briefly giving him the ghost of a smile before taking a sip of her Espresso.

"Mm," she said. "It's good. I like it."

Steve smiled. "I'm glad." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a couple get up from their seats by the windows. "C'mon," he said, nodding towards the now empty table. Together, they walked over and sat down facing each other. Steve took a sip of his Cappuccino and sighed. "So, tell me about yourself, Charlie Brooke," he said, looking into her beautiful brown eyes.

She didn't answer at first, taking a few sips while she thought. "What do you want to know?" she asked finally.

"I don't know… what do you do for a living?" Steve smiled widely as her eyes lit up.

"I'm an artist," she said. "Art has always been an escape for me. I've been painting since I was a little girl. It's really my only passion."

"An artist?" Steve shook his head. "I've always had an appreciation for art, but the best I've ever been able to draw is stick figures." His heart warmed as Charlie giggled. She was really attractive. Maybe not in the same way Peggy was, but then again, whoever said she was competing with Peggy? Steve almost smacked himself for even thinking that. He was just spending time with Charlie, a girl he'd met on the street and bought a cup of coffee. Maybe he'd made a new friend, but Steve hadn't even considered love in a long time. There was no reason to change that now.

"So, since I already know what your job is," Charlie said, "tell me what it's like. Being a hero."

Steve was taken aback by her question. What is it like to be a hero? How could he answer that? "Well…" he started slowly. "It's not all it's cracked up to be. The media makes it look so… glamorous. Such an adventure. I mean, take Tony Stark. Rich, famous, he's got a great girl, a successful business, you name it. But what they don't show in the magazines is that he's just a human being like the rest of us. He isn't living a dream – none of us are. We aren't really heroes. We didn't choose this. It's just that there are some things out there that no one else is strong enough or brave enough to face. We were called to these roles."

Charlie gazed at him for a moment with an unreadable expression. Then, she said, "You're good at explaining things."

It was Steve's turn to laugh. "I do my best." They continued asking each other questions, anything they wanted to know about each other. Favorite color, favorite food, pet peeves – Steve knew Charlie almost as well as he knew the other Avengers by the time they'd finished their coffee, long after their drinks were cold.

Then Charlie glanced up at the clock on the counter and paled. "What is it?" Steve asked, turning to follow her gaze.

"I'm late," Charlie said, her voice low. "I was supposed to be back almost three hours ago." She stood abruptly. "Sorry, I've got to go…" she sounded distracted as she walked back up to the counter, Steve at her heels.

"Whoa, Charlie, what's wrong?" he asked as she ordered a White Chocolate Mocha.

"My boss… I need to get him some coffee, and then I've got to get going," Charlie said. Steve was shocked by how nervous she was – tapping her foot on the floor, grinding her teeth, swallowing every few seconds. It was as if she was scared.

"I completely forgot, I'm sorry," Steve said. "Here, let me pay—" he started, but Charlie shook her head.

"No, it's fine. Really. I should've been paying more attention to time." As soon as the drink was on the counter, Charlie paid the cashier, said, "Keep the change," and was out the door.

"Charlie!" Steve called after her. The rain had eased a bit, but it was still drizzling. "Charlie, wait!" He ran after her, determined to understand what was wrong. "Charlie, please," he said, catching her by the shoulder.

She turned slowly, looking up at him with a sorry look. "I'm sorry, Steve," she mumbled. "I had a lot of fun today. More fun than I've had in a while. But I really can't afford to lose my job… I've had a lot of close calls already."

He sighed. "Charlie…" She was about to say something, but Steve continued, "I'm sorry, alright? I understand. You've got to make a living somehow. It's wrong of me to stop you. Just…" He gave her a pleading look. "Can I see you again? You're a lot of fun." Charlie swallowed again, hesitating. "You don't have to," Steve said quickly. "I just—"

"Two weeks," Charlie blurted. "Two weeks from now, at noon. I'll be here."

Steve grinned; he couldn't help it. "I'll see you then," he promised.

She glanced around as if to see if anyone was watching, then returned his smile. "See you then," she said. Then she was jogging off into the rain, avoiding puddles and pedestrians.

With one final look back at the Charlie, Steve turned and began to make his way back to the tower. The world was swimming around him. He had a date, two weeks away. An actual date, and not something Natasha had put together for him. Steve suddenly realized that the reason he was losing the feeling in his arms was because Charlie still had his jacket. He gave another grin and shook his head. Just another reason to see her again. By the time he reached the tower, he was soaked to the skin and as frozen as the North Pole. But he couldn't keep the smile from his face.

"_Captain Rogers_," Jarvis greeted him.

"Hey, Jarvis," Steve replied.

"_Welcome back, sir_," the computer said. The elevator doors opened automatically as usual, and Steve stepped inside. "_I've just alerted the rest of the Avengers of your arrival. They seemed to be quite worried about your sudden disappearance_."

"Well, they're a good group of people," Steve said, shrugging. "Besides, they don't have to worry about me, I can take care of myself."

"_I'm sure you can, sir_," Jarvis agreed. "_However, they worried nonetheless_."

"That's my team, I guess," Steve chuckled, stepping out of the elevator as the doors opened smoothly.

A crowd of familiar faces all whirled to face him. "Steve!" Pepper cried. "You're soaking! How long have you been out in the rain! What if you get sick?!"

"I'm fine, Miss Potts," Steve assured her, but she'd already run off, probably to get a towel or a fresh shirt.

"Hey, Cap," Clint called from where he was sitting on the couch, briefly glancing up from the magazine he was reading. Steve snorted when he saw the archer was only wearing a towel. "Welcome home, and all that."

"Where've you been?!" Natasha demanded, suddenly appearing at his side and punching him in the shoulder.

"Out." Steve kept walking, towards the couches, and before anyone could react, he'd stolen Clint's towel and was drying his hair. Ignoring Clint's yell of shock and everyone else's screams, Steve laughed, dropping the towel.

Clint hurriedly wrapped the towel around his midsection and gave Steve a look of horror. "Who are you, and what have you done with Steve?"

"Toughen up, soldier," Steve replied, smirking. "And while you're at it, put on some pants." He turned and walked towards his room.

"What was that about?" Natasha asked, following him.

Steve shrugged, opening his door and walking into his room. "My hair was wet."

"Somehow that doesn't strike me as something Captain America would do," Natasha continued. "Are you feeling okay?"

"Keep in mind that I'm only Captain America half of the time," Steve said. Repeating what he'd said to Charlie earlier, he added, "Sometimes I'm just Steve."

"Well, Steve," Natasha said, sitting down on his bed, "I didn't know there was a difference."

Steve pulled off his sodden shirt and dropped it on the floor. He kicked off his shoes and moved towards the closet. "Well, for one thing, Captain America is a hero." Steve let his jeans fall to the floor and reached for a pair of dry pants.

"And for another," Natasha said, coming up behind him, "Captain America would never be caught wearing only his boxers."

Steve blinked, then felt heat rising in his cheeks. "Um…"

"Something happened while you were on your walk, huh?" Natasha said. She had her arms crossed and was giving him her best 'don't lie to me' look.

"Maybe," Steve admitted. "Maybe not," he added slyly.

"Hmm… acting out of character, that dopey grin on your face… Was it a girl?"

"Why do you always think it's a girl?" Steve asked, glaring at her.

"So it is a girl?" Natasha said with a grin.

"Maybe, maybe not." Steve hoped his blush didn't show that much on his face. He pulled on his jeans and smiled at Natasha's pout. "It's none of your business, anyway," Steve pointed out, but she just scoffed.

"I'm the Black Widow," she countered. "Everyone's business is my business. And _I_ say that you've found yourself a girl. Am I right?" Steve didn't answer as he pulled on his shirt. "Steve, come on! Who would I tell?"

"Pepper, Clint, Tony, Bruce, Thor… pretty much everyone I know?" Steve shook his head. "Why should I trust you?"

"What kind of a question is that?!"

Steve rolled his eyes. "Alright, give me one reason I should trust you and I'll tell you."

"I'm the master of secrets," Natasha said immediately. "I'll figure it out even if you don't tell me. You've never been able to keep secrets from me anyway."

"Fine! You win." Natasha smirked. "Maybe there is a girl, and maybe there isn't. I'm not quite sure yet. All I can tell you is that I met someone today that I think might be worth my time."

Natasha whooped. "See? I told you! All you needed was a girlfriend."

Steve sighed. "I never said she was my girlfriend."

"You didn't have to. Even if she isn't your girlfriend yet, you're Captain America." Natasha grinned like a kid in a candy store and backed towards the door. "Whoever she is – and even if you won't tell me who she is, I'll figure it out – she's one lucky girl." And with that, she took off down the hallway.

Steve flopped onto his bed. "Charlie Brooke," he said quietly. "Two weeks at noon." He paused, then muttered, "This is going to be the longest two weeks of my life." And even he had to admit that that was saying a lot.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

"Where have you been?" Damon's voice chilled her to the bone, his anger so obvious. When she didn't answer, he yelled even louder, "I thought you'd left! Do you know how much work it is to catch a runner? It's almost impossible!"

Charlie cried out as he struck her in the cheek, the sudden smack so powerful that it brought her to her knees. White Chocolate Mocha splattered across the ancient wooden floor, and the now empty paper cup rolled away.

"I'd have had to pull all my boys to find you," Damon snarled. "Not only is that a wild goose chase, but that makes me lose money." The thought of losing money must have made him angrier, because he hit her again. Charlie's eyes watered. "Now when I ask you a question, you answer me," Damon ordered, breathing heavily. "Where the hell were you?"

Charlie said nothing. She couldn't tell him anything. If he knew what had really happened, she'd never be able to leave again, not even for paint.

Her eyes were open when he brought his hand to meet her cheek again. Her vision blurred this time, and heat rushed to her skin. "Tell me!" he spat. Another blow to the face. Blood trickled from her nose. "TELL ME!"

"Where did you think I was?!" Charlie howled, the words tumbling from her mouth.

Damon's figure was hazy as she looked up at him from where she was now on her hands and knees. He seemed like he was about to say something, but she cut him off. "I just can't take it anymore!" she sobbed. "I can barely breathe in here, and the men make it almost impossible to feel secure! They treat me like dirt!" Tears and blood fell to the worn wooden floor together as silent companions, and in a whisper she said, "_You_ treat me like dirt."

He didn't say anything at first, searching for the right words. Then: "That doesn't answer my question."

"I was out! I was away from here, in the rain, soaked and freezing, and I was happier than I've been in weeks!" Charlie spat blood from her mouth, splattering on Damon's designer shoes.

Her entire body was thrown sideways as Damon's guard kicked her in the side. She slid along the hardwood, unable to cry out because the air had been forced from her lungs. Damon, though, was screaming. Charlie couldn't hear what he was saying, but somehow she knew that he wasn't directing his anger at her.

Blood pooled around her face, warm and soothing. Charlie couldn't bring herself to move. She could vaguely make out silhouettes in front of her, brawling men. One, the guard, was cowering as at least four others struggled to beat him down. Damon was still yelling, something about how the man was worthless compared to her. How he could be replaced and she couldn't be. Then Charlie recognized the word 'punishment'. She curled into the fetal position and squeezed her eyes shut, braced for pain.

But she wasn't the one Damon was talking about. When the gunshot sounded, Charlie realized that the bullet it belonged to wasn't meant for her. There was a loud thud as something big and limp fell to the floor. The guard's body.

Charlie held her breath, her pulse roaring in her ears. He'd just killed someone. For her. _That's either the most romantic or the most horrible thing that anyone has ever done for me_, Charlie thought. Then she realized how absurd and demented that was.

"Charlie." Damon sounded close to her now. He didn't sound angry anymore, but not exactly friendly. "Get up."

She opened her eyes a sliver and almost choked on her own blood. The men were currently hauling away their former colleague's body by the ankles, a trail of blood left in their path. Damon hauled her to her feet roughly, shoving her towards the easel. "Work," he ordered. "When you're done, you don't leave this room, you understand?"

Just as they finished dragging the body, they were back with filthy rags and ratty old towels to mop up the blood. Charlie felt sick. "Do you understand?!" Damon snarled, drawing her attention once again. She nodded, swallowing. "Then stop standing around being worthless and _work_."

Charlie picked her bag up from the floor where she'd dropped it only minutes before, when Damon had still been pacing in his office. When there hadn't been blood all over the floor. She opened it and then drew the bag closed again, feeling heat rush to her cheeks. She'd forgotten about the helmet. It was still there, where she'd put it earlier that day. Glancing around, Charlie exhaled slowly. None of the men were paying attention to her. They hadn't seen it.

She quickly pulled out the paint and closed the bag again, setting it down next to the easel. Turning back to the painting, she got to work, nervous and distracted. If they found it, she'd definitely get more than a bloody nose.

Hours passed as she slowly brought the final aspects of the painting to life. After a while, the room got quiet, and in the back of her mind Charlie realized that they had finished cleaning up the floor. The sky had gone completely dark by the time she finished.

Thunder and lightning crackled in the sky, the storm getting worse. Charlie slowly pulled the helmet from her bag and studied it. It looked even more beat up than she remembered, but it was still just as familiar and beautiful as ever.

Charlie set it on the floor behind the easel, sitting cross-legged next to it and turning it delicately to catch the light in a way that she liked. _How am I going to fix it?_ Charlie wondered hopelessly. She'd picked it up off the street with every intention of fixing it up and returning it to the Avengers, but that plan was riddled with problems. She had no hope of being able to understand the technology, for one thing, but how on Earth would she return it? It couldn't stay there, at the heart of Damon's empire. If he found out about it, he'd take it from her immediately. Then… well, heaven knows what he'd do with it. Sell it, probably, or mount it on the wall like a trophy.

And she couldn't let that happen. Damon didn't deserve anything of value – not her paintings, not all his money, and certainly not Iron Man's helmet. No, Charlie was going to fix it as well as she could and return it to its rightful owner. She had to.

She drew Steve's hoodie around her closely and breathed in the smell that lingered on the jacket. If not for Iron Man, she'd do it for Captain America. _No_, she thought. _Not Captain America. I'll do this for Steve._

* * *

><p>Steve fidgeted, unable to focus on what Nick was saying. His eyes kept straying to the windows, out at the view of Manhattan. Avengers Tower might not have been (in his opinion) the prettiest building in the city, but it really was a beautiful sight, looking at the world from above. He wondered if Charlie would like it. Then his attention was drawn back to the conversation by Natasha slapping him in the face.<p>

"Rogers, have you even been paying attention to what I've been saying?" Nick was glaring at him with his good eye, normally an intimidating sight, but for once Steve wasn't affected.

"No, sir. I have not," he replied shamelessly, ignoring the sting in his cheek from where Natasha had hit him. Pepper, walking in from the elevator, raised her eyebrows.

Fury wasn't impressed. "I hope you don't mind telling me why not," he said, taking the cup of coffee Pepper handed him.

Steve hesitated. _What am I doing? This isn't right. I'm a soldier, I don't rebel without a reason_, he thought. "My apologies, Director," he said wearily. "I was… distracted. It won't happen again."

Sitting across from him, Natasha smirked, but to Steve's relief, she didn't say anything. "Apology accepted, soldier," Nick said, though he was still eyeing Steve suspiciously. Turning back to the table, Nick said, "Alright. So, to recap, we have a few leads on HYDRA's recent activity. After our last few attacks, we're pretty sure they've been greatly weakened, and we believe that they're currently focusing all of their attention on recruiting…"

The Director carried on, and Steve _tried_ to focus. But it only half worked. He got the gist of everything, sure, but he found that after a while, Nick's words all melted together. "We'd like to send a few of you, maybe a two-man team, to shut them down. Any volunteers?"

For a moment, there was silence. Then, Thor said, "I shall."

"Thank you," Nick said. "Anyone else?" He glanced at Steve. Steve shifted uneasily.

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve saw a small twitch, and if he didn't know better, he'd have thought that Natasha had elbowed Clint. "I'll go," Clint offered.

"Alright. You two, pack your bags. You leave in thirty minutes."

Natasha glanced at Steve, mouthed, 'Hold on,' and then followed Clint out of the living room. The others got back to whatever they'd been doing before Fury's sudden meeting.

Steve sighed and stood, walking to his room. As he passed Clint's room, he didn't fail to notice that the door was closed, and that whatever conversation the pair were having was meant to be private. He just rolled his eyes and kept walking. Everyone knew that something was going on between the two assassins, even he did. There was no point in trying to hide it.

The door to his room creaked open as he nudged it completely open, and he sighed into the familiar silhouettes of his furniture. It was home – just as much of a home as his old apartment had been. But that was just an empty memory. He lived with the other Avengers now.

As he stepped inside, the lights automatically brightened. Steve groaned, looking around his room. Over the past few days, he'd become a complete slob. Clothes strewn across the floor, bed unmade – what was happening to him?

Slowly, Steve began to pick up his mess. Out of boredom, he gathered all the clothes in a pile on his bed and tossing them from all around his room into the laundry chute, making every single shot. Not that he was counting.

Right as the last dirty sock disappeared down the chute, the door creaked again, and Steve turned to find that he wasn't alone anymore. "Natasha," he greeted the redhead, and she smirked as she closed the door noisily behind her.

"You're going to have to get your door fixed, Rogers. I can't sneak up on you anymore," she joked.

"Why'd you come to see me?" Steve asked, straightening the sheets on his bed. "I thought you'd be saying goodbye to Clint."

She gave him a suspicious look. "Why would I be seeing Clint?" she asked, her voice on edge.

"I don't know," Steve said. "You two are… close. You work together. You're friends." He gave her a teasing smile. "I even know a few people who think you might be even more than friends."

"Love is for children," she answered immediately. "I don't have feelings for Clint."

Steve chuckled. "Maybe not," he admitted, "but you can't have missed all the times he's looked at you like you're the light of his life."

Natasha scoffed. "He does not—" she began to protest, but Steve continued as if she hadn't spoken.

"I honestly can't blame him. You're quite an attractive young woman. Any man would be lucky to have you." She looked just about ready to explode, but Steve raised his hands in surrender. "However, I'm getting the feeling that you didn't come to my room to argue about your love life." He sat down on the edge of his bed.

She seemed to relax a little, understanding that he'd purposely changed the subject. "No, not _my_ love life. I want to talk about yours."

"What about it?" Steve asked.

The redhead walked over and sat down next to him. "Steve, you said you were distracted this morning. You talked back to Fury, which is definitely out of character, and even after you apologized, I could tell you still weren't paying attention." She turned to face him, now sitting cross-legged. "In my experience, there are two things that distract a man like that. The first is food. The second is women."

"Are you suggesting that I'm daydreaming about a girl?" he asked.

She gave him a knowing smile. "Precisely. Now, a few days ago, you were telling me about someone you met on the street. I'm guessing that this is the same girl, and if she's still on your mind after only a few hours of knowing each other, I'm guessing that you're more attracted to her than I originally thought."

"Yeah, well… Charlie's one heck of a gal," Steve answered, the image of that one, perfect smile she'd given him popping into his mind.

"Ooh," Natasha mused. "Charlie! That's a cute name. What does she look like?"

Steve wanted to smack himself. "Uh… that's none of your business," he attempted weakly, but Natasha had already moved on.

"Why does this 'Charlie' interest you so much?" she asked.

He hesitated. "I don't know… I spent almost two hours with her, and I already feel like I know her as well as I know you."

"But?" Natasha pressed.

"But… It's complicated," Steve shook his head. "When she had to go, she just got this look of panic. She said something about being late, and how her boss was going to be angry."

Natasha looked thoughtful. "What kind of job does she have?"

"She said that she's an artist," he answered. Natasha said nothing for a moment, just looking at him with a blank expression. "What?" he asked.

"That doesn't add up, Steve. I'm surprised you didn't notice it right away," she replied. There was a sort of pity in her gaze.

"Why? What are you talking about?" Steve was getting frustrated. "Natasha, you're talking in riddles! What did I miss?"

"Steve," Natasha said softly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes seemed to soften as she murmured, "Did you ever stop and ask her what kind of an artist has a boss?"

* * *

><p>The completion of the forgery had earned Charlie a lot of praise from Damon, and even a few days off to herself, which was the most kindness Damon had and ever would show her. She rarely earned such a reward, only after her best work. The catch was that she had to stay in the apartment. But Charlie had no problem with that.<p>

No one disturbed her as she was sketching the scene from memory, the image of the helmet, a beautiful, awe-inspiring sight, among the trash, as if it had been carelessly thrown aside. Perhaps it had, but Charlie couldn't believe that. Even someone famed for having an ego as big as the Pacific and Atlantic combined, like Tony Stark, had to have some sense of sentimentality.

The sketch was rough, and could definitely be improved over time, but Charlie wanted to have as much time as possible to work on the actual helmet. Even if Stark's technology was as alien to her as – well, the Chitauri invasion had been – Charlie knew she could fix the dents and the places where the paint had been slashed away. That was her goal, at least.

Charlie flinched and grit her teeth at the metallic creak of the metal as she forced the last dent back into its original shape. After a moment's silence, when she'd determined that no one was coming to investigate, Charlie flopped onto the ancient spring box mattress and huffed out a breath. Metal-working was obviously not her niche. The helmet had taken hours to finally reshape, and that had been using all of her strength – and a rubber mallet.

Now she had to repaint the damn thing.

If she wasn't so passionate about her new, secret project, Charlie would have just pried up a floorboard and stashed the helmet out of sight. Her muscles screamed and protested every movement. Her head spun and a wave of exhaustion crashed into her, making her want to do nothing more than curl up and take a nap.

Forcing herself back up and ignoring the sudden faint feeling she was punished with, Charlie pulled the helmet into her lap and looked at it lovingly. This was an escape. This could keep her from going insane. She had the urge to wrap her arms around it like a teddy bear.

Instead she walked over to her shelf of paints and selected three jars, one gold and the others two different shades of red that she could combine to make the same shade on the helmet. Sitting on the floor and pulling the helmet down next to her, Charlie studied it. It _was_ missing paint. A lot of paint. But she could deal with that.

Setting the helmet next to her on the old wooden floor, Charlie carefully unscrewed the jar of gold paint. Holding her breath, she delicately smeared the paint onto the cool metal. That was scratch one of – well, a lot. With a sigh, Charlie got to work.

Almost half an hour had passed by the time Charlie had finished. Besides being wet, the helmet was in excellent shape. She left it behind the mattress to dry and walked over to the window, down at her personal corner of the city. The occasional car drove past, and every once and a while, someone would walk by with their shoulders hunched against the wind. Of course, there wouldn't be traffic. Never. Damon's empire was based in the run-down parts of the city, the places that don't feel safe to linger in.

Charlie hated it. But if anyone tried to mess with her, she was at least safe from that threat. Damon's workers patrolled the streets, ready to sound the alarm if anything was out of place. They all knew Charlie, too. The one time someone had approached her, a young man with a greedy look in his eyes, one of the guards had beat him senseless and thrown him behind the nearest dumpster.

She sighed, condensation from her breath frosting over the cold glass of the window. With a sad smile, Charlie wrote her initials. _CB_. Just like she had thousands of times before as a child, living with her mother in Boston. They'd had a tiny apartment, nothing compared to the one she was confined in now. But at least with her mom, she wasn't imprisoned.

Backing away from the window, Charlie picked up Steve's hoodie from the mattress and pulled it on. It was at least three sizes too big for her, but it was her favorite. Not because it had once belonged to Captain America, but because it was warm, comfortable, and it smelled good. Really good. Like Steve.

For what must have been the millionth time, Charlie wanted to kick herself. _Two weeks_, she'd told him. She'd figured that if he was still interested, he would be there, and if not, he wouldn't. At the time, it had seemed logical. Now, though, Charlie couldn't believe how stupid she'd been. Not only was she making him wait, she had to wait as well. And waiting was torture.

Still, there was that one part of her mind that regretting agreeing to see him again at all. How would it work? How would she hide her connection to Steve from Damon? How would she hide her life from Steve? If she told Steve the truth, would he believe her? Would he help her?

Too many questions, no answers. Charlie perched on the edge of her mattress and buried her face in her hands. Most of her was certain that if she told Steve the truth, he'd just give her this look – like he couldn't believe she would make such a ridiculous claim, like he didn't believe her. But maybe, just maybe…

Part of her dared to be hopeful. He was a hero. In the stories, heroes were selfless. They had a way of knowing when something was wrong, and the courage to change that. But life isn't a story. And Steve, despite the fact that he was a super-soldier, was only human. Humans aren't perfect. Therefore, Charlie couldn't rely on a storybook ending.

So, no. She had no idea what was going to happen. She didn't know if this relationship would go anywhere, if it would impact the rest of her hideously miserable life, nothing. She was scared out of her mind that she would do something wrong and be discovered, because no matter who caught her, she was sure that her life would get much, much harder.

But whenever Steve came to mind, Charlie couldn't help but grin like a fool. He was the only person she knew personally that she _wanted_ to see. He was a good guy. The kind of guy Charlie's mom had told her to fall in love with.

Her eyes strayed to the helmet, sitting innocently next to her bed. It gleamed slightly in the room's dim light. Charlie's heart sank at the thought of having to return it. "You too. I almost forgot," she murmured.

With a soft groan, she flopped onto her back, limp as a ragdoll, and closed her eyes. _Twelve days_, she thought. _Then I get to see Steve again._


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Steve bit his lip, sneaking a glance at his watch. 12:02 pm. So, she wasn't right on time. Of course, there were several completely logical answers to why she was a little late. She could have been caught up at work. She could have gotten lost. _She could have forgotten_, he thought. _Or… she might not be coming._

He couldn't believe that. He _refused_ to believe that. Charlie didn't seem like the kind of person to stand him up. Then again, he'd only been with her for three hours. He didn't know her as well as he wanted to. And then there was the issue with her boss.

_What kind of an artist has a boss?_ Natasha had said.

_She might have a part-time job_, he'd insisted. _There has to be a good reason._ But as the days had added up, Steve began to wonder if Natasha was right. He'd asked for her job, and she'd said she was an artist. She hadn't been lying either, he was sure.

The shop was pretty quiet, with only five other customers being there. Steve glanced down at the two cups on the table. His cappuccino, her espresso. Steam still rose in wisps from the drinks, but Steve had was worried that they'd be cold by the time Charlie got there.

_If she's coming_.

His thoughts were interrupted by the door opening quietly. Steve looked up hopefully, smiling at the woman walking towards him. "Hi," Charlie said, her voice soft. She had a sort of bashful grin on her face, and her eyes were just as warm and beautiful as he remembered.

"Hey," he greeted her. She sat, perched on the edge of her chair, and Steve quietly admitted, "I was kind of worried you wouldn't come."

A slight blush crept into her cheeks. "To be honest… I was scared you would forget."

Steve laughed. "I couldn't forget someone as incredible as you," he said. Her blush darkened. "Was your boss okay with you being late?" Steve asked, changing the subject.

"Oh, um… Well, he was angry, but…" She shrugged. "I got away with it for the most part."

"Was he okay with you taking time off today?" Steve held his breath, trying to keep a straight face.

Charlie shifted uneasily. "Technically, I'm not supposed to leave the office without his permission," she answered slowly. "But I figure as long as I'm back before he notices, I'm fine."

They changed the subject again, quickly, although Steve was dying to ask her more questions. Soon they'd both drained their cups, and Steve couldn't stop his fingers from drumming a light, quick rhythm on the tabletop. It didn't seem to bother Charlie, but it was bothering him. Finally, he asked: "Do you want to go on a walk? It's a nice day outside."

She hesitated a moment, glancing over at the clock on the counter. "Okay," she said.

"You sure?" he asked, worried. "We don't have to, if you're going to be late again."

"No, it's fine." There was a determined tone in her voice. "I want to. I haven't really been around this part of the city before."

Steve grinned. "Then I guess I'll have to show you around."

It was kind of cold outside, but this time Charlie had a jacket – _his_ jacket. Steve didn't mind, though. In his mind, it was hers now. He wasn't going to ask for it back. They walked hand-in-hand, which seemed to be a little intimate for a second date, but they were both comfortable with it.

She gazed around at the city with wide eyes, as if to take it all in. They talked all the while, just small talk. Charlie pointed out small details in their surroundings that Steve had never noticed, giving him a completely different perspective of the city. And after a while, he realized with a jolt that he was falling for her. The secretive artist with the beautiful brown eyes and quiet voice.

That, however, could be problematic – for several reasons.

* * *

><p>He found himself back at the tower all too soon. Charlie had agreed to meet him next week, at the same time, at the same place. Whatever her job was, she didn't get much free time. So, not a part time job. Steve hated that Natasha's warning had made him so paranoid.<p>

As soon as the elevator doors opened, Natasha had a firm grip on his wrist and was dragging him across the room, ignoring the weird looks they were getting from Tony, Pepper and Bruce. She pushed him into his room and locked the door behind him.

With the lights off, Steve couldn't see the expression on her face. Just her silhouette and the gleam of her green eyes in the dark. "What happened?" Natasha asked, her voice so low it was almost grim.

"Nothing," Steve said, regretting the word as soon as it left his lips.

"_Something_ happened," Natasha insisted. "Look at you. You look exhausted, you're slouching, and you're being moody. I'm not an idiot, Steve. I can read you like a book."

He bit back a retort and sighed. "It's nothing, alright? Please," he said, sounding as tired as he apparently looked.

Natasha gave a huff of annoyance. "Tell me what happened," she ordered.

Knowing she wouldn't leave him alone if he didn't tell her, he caved in and said, "It was normal. She was normal. Normal girl, normal day. I really like her, Tasha. I do. And there's absolutely nothing out of the ordinary about Charlie."

"But?"

"But…" he continued, "After what you said, I'm starting to get paranoid. You were right about the job. She says she's an artist, but she's got a boss. I thought maybe she had a part-time job or something, but that doesn't make any sense. From what she's told me, she's almost always working, and she doesn't get any free time."

"Steve," Natasha said. He elected to ignore her.

"I'm really worried, Natasha. I'm scared that she's hiding something from me. I'm scared that she's too perfect to be true. I can't stop coming up with scenarios where she's some sort of HYDRA spy, or that she's a journalist for some gossip magazine."

"_Steve_."

"Natasha, what do I do? It's been ninety years since I've been in a relationship. I don't know what I'm doing!"

"STEVE!" He stopped in his rant and looked at her. It was only then that he realized he'd started pacing. Natasha turned on the lights, and he had to blink a few times before his eyes adjusted. "Steve," she said again, in a calm, soothing tone. "I understand that you're worried. But you need to keep a level head. You're over-thinking this. Just calm down."

He took a deep breath before sitting down on his bed. "I'm just so—"

"I know," she said, sitting next to him. Natasha lightly touched his arm, and he met her eyes. "If it would make you feel better," she said, "I could do what I do best."

Steve grimaced. "Natasha—"

"You don't have to agree, alright, just hear me out." Steve fell silent. "The next time you meet her, I could follow her. See where she goes. I could learn more about her. Find out if you're paranoid for a reason."

She paused, letting him think. _Natasha could do it_, he thought. _It would be invading Charlie's privacy, though, and lying to her. But… it's all for a good reason, isn't it? And she'd never have to know_. He vaguely heard himself say, "Okay."

Natasha squeezed his arm and said something along the lines of "we'll talk some more, later" before leaving him alone with his thoughts. Then she was gone.

Steve knew that the others would be wondering what was going on between the two, but he couldn't share any of this with them, no matter how much he trusted them. One of them was bound to tell Fury, and the Director would immediately take over. No, this was for him and Natasha only.

He scoffed at himself. _What kind of a world do we live in where I can't be honest with the rest of my team?_

* * *

><p>Charlie didn't regret having gone out for a few hours with Steve. She didn't regret it at all. Not when she was found a few streets away from home by Damon's goons and was literally dragged back. Not when the men on the stairs cackled at her and tried to touch her. Not even when Damon was screaming at her for her 'disobedience.'<p>

She was now locked in her room. Two guards by the doors at all times. Nothing to do but paint, paint, paint. Charlie didn't mind. She created scenes she'd never even dreamed of, snapshots of the part of the city Steve had introduced her to. One canvas, two, four, eight, until she'd drenched every last blank canvas she had in color.

Not once did she put an image of Steve into her work. He was all she could think about. Of course, if she gave Damon a picture of Captain America, he'd tear her to pieces in seconds. So instead of painting his eyes, or his smile, which was what she _really_ wanted to paint, she recreated what the two of them had seen together. It was satisfying, to say the least. Her best memories of Manhattan by far, documented in her artwork.

A few days after she'd been put under house arrest, Damon barged into her room yelling about how she was being "too quiet" or something along those lines – and froze in his tracks.

She wasn't paying him any attention, devoting all of her heart and soul to the final canvas in front of her. She'd long been out of the colors she would have needed to fill it in completely, but she would be able to get some more paint later.

This one was going to remain black and white, anyway. She'd made it so lifelike, more like a photograph than a painting. It was one of the greatest works of art she'd ever created, and the closest she would ever come to painting Steve.

Their hands were intertwined on a tabletop, untouched cups of coffee pushed aside. There was a view outside, slightly blurred so the main focus of the piece was on them holding hands. She'd been oh-so-careful not to give anything that could reveal the identities of the people in the picture. Of course, Steve would probably be able to guess, and she knew. But no one else. Perfect anonymity.

After a while, she'd forgotten Damon was even there. He announced his presence with a false cough, startling her, but Charlie had steady hands. Instead of a jerking movement that would have ruined the painting, she merely paused what she was doing before pulling away and turning to face the intruder.

"That," he said, "is incredible. I knew you were talented, but this?" He chuckled, a sound she despised with every ounce of her being. "This is the jackpot. You know how much this is worth? A lot more than anything else you've done. I could sell this to any major coffee house in the country. Maybe even the world."

Charlie grit her teeth and said nothing. Damon was already lining up buyers. What a wonderful thought. A nameless, faceless person she'd never meet would be taking away yet another part of her soul. And they wouldn't have a clue what the piece meant to its creator.

Damon turned to look at the finished paintings and grunted in approval. "So, that's where you were, huh? Wandering the city?"

"Looking for inspiration," Charlie said through bared teeth. "I went places I've never been before. I saw things that inspired me. I painted them."

He looked back at the black and white painting. "Who's that?" he asked.

"Just a couple," she said, fidgeting. "I saw them at a Starbucks. It was photogenic, so I decided to put it into my work." Hopefully he'd accept that as an answer.

Damon's eyebrows scrunched together. He studied the painting closely. "Well, whoever they are," he said finally, "they're about to make me a fortune."

Those words where what made her hate him more than anything in the world.

* * *

><p>Natasha and Pepper walked through the gallery side-by-side. "Thanks for doing this with me," Pepper said. "Tony's being difficult today. Didn't want to leave his workshop."<p>

"No problem," Natasha assured her. "I have an appreciation for art."

They were in a makeshift gallery filled with the works of local, undiscovered artists, trying to find pieces to purchase for the new Stark Museum of Modern Art. It was a project that Tony had been interested in for about five minutes before getting bored and moving on, but Pepper was stubborn. She wasn't going to let another idea slip away.

Before the auction, there was thirty minutes for the buyers to look around at all the pieces. So far, Natasha hadn't seen anything super impressive. There were a few nice landscape pictures in the far corner, a couple sculptures that had caught Pepper's eye and an abstract that would go nicely with what they had so far, but nothing more than that.

A small crowd had gathered around a spot in the gallery where a few men were carefully moving a canvas covered by a white sheet into place. Pepper immediately gravitated towards the group, and Natasha followed.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" said a man in the front. He had a gleam in his eyes. "I'm proud to present to you the works of Charlotte Brooke. Her most recent pieces have been inspired by New York City itself. Unfortunately, the Charlotte was unable to accompany us tonight. However, we've brought her best, and I can guarantee that you won't be disappointed." With a grand flourish, he pulled the sheet away, and the crowd gasped.

"I give to you her most recent work, a piece she's affectionately named _Together_. No, it's not a picture. It's a painting. Stunning, isn't it?" He gave a wicked smile, one that almost made Natasha recoil.

Pepper gasped as they caught sight of the painting. "It looks so real," she said. Natasha nodded. It was much better than anything else they'd seen.

"Hyperrealism," a man near them noted, looking towards the two women. "Normally, I don't recognize this genre as art, but these pieces are truly brilliant."

Natasha looked at the rest of the paintings. The man was right. All of the pieces looked like high-resolution photographs, snapshots of Manhattan. Most had color, but the one the man in front had made a big reveal for, _Together_, was in black and white. "Charlotte Brooke," Natasha mused aloud. _Sounds familiar_, she thought.

"Yes," an older, mousy-looking woman in front of them said, turning to face them. Her eyes shown. "Charlotte is _fabulous_, so talented! I love her work! But it's always fought over so much at the auctions. It's almost impossible to buy one of her pieces, it's always snapped up by wealthy private collections."

Before Natasha could reply, the woman was moving on. "I haven't seen you two before," she noted. "Is this your first auction?"

"Yes, actually," Pepper answered. "We're here representing the Stark Museum of Modern Art."

"That new gallery?" the woman said. "Hmm. I didn't know Tony Stark had an interest in art."

"He doesn't," Pepper said. "I do." She shook hands with the woman. "I'm Pepper Potts."

The woman smiled. "Martha Peirce. Nice to meet you." She turned to Natasha and stuck out her hand. "And you are?"

Natasha shook Martha's hand firmly. "Natalie Rushman. Miss Potts' assistant."

"Good to meet you both," Martha said.

A few minutes later they were sitting down in front of a raised platform, where a man with a long beard sat on a wooden stool. "We'll be starting with _Windy Day_ by John Freeman. Let's start the bidding at five hundred dollars, anybody for five hundred?"

The auctions progressed slowly, with the man in front barely taking a breath the entire time he rattled on. The pieces sold by artist to artist, John Freeman's abstracts, Donna Kowalski's sculptures, Marcia Bower's landscapes. There were dozens of artists Natasha had never heard of. Pepper won the abstract they'd liked, a few small Kowalski sculptures, and surrealism. No one fought very hard for those, and Natasha knew why.

"Ooh!" Martha squealed softly as the auctioneer announced the final painting by Silvia Kane. "After this one it's Charlie's work!"

"Charlie?" Natasha said in a low voice, careful not to disturb the auction.

"Charlotte, sorry," Martha whispered. "She just always signs her paintings as 'Charlie Brooke,' so that's what I call her."

_Charlie Brooke_. Coincidence? Not likely. That was why the artist's name had seemed familiar. The auction was finished quickly, many of the curators and collectors eager to get to the main event. "Next up we have works by Charlie Brooke, starting with _A Walk in the City_. We're starting at a thousand, anyone for—going onto two thousand, three thousand, four—"

Everyone was after the painting. In a matter of seconds, it had gone from a fight to a war over Charlie's first piece. Thousands grew to tens of thousands, jumping easily to a hundred thousand in a matter of minutes. Pepper tried a few times, but her bid lasted for seconds before being beaten. Finally she caved in. "Her work is fantastic," she murmured to Natasha, "but we'll never get any of it this way. Maybe after the auction we can talk to the man she sent and see if we can buy a few pieces straight from them."

Natasha nodded. She would _definitely _be speaking with Miss Brooke's representative, anyway. If they could score a few fabulous works of art along the way, well, that was just a bonus. "And _sold_, $252,000 to the man in the back."

The next few auctions were brutal. Natasha could literally feel the tension in the room. _City Lights_ and _Broadway_ each went for over two hundred thousand dollars, just like _A Walk in the City._ _Wall Street_ brought in over three hundred thousand. There were three more afterwards, the second to last, a smaller one, going for only one hundred thousand, and Martha won it at the very last second, grinning like a fool.

Then it was the last painting. The largest, the most anticipated. The one that made even the rest of Charlie's work pale in comparison. _Together_. There was a soft, collective sigh as it was set on the display easel. "Charlie's _Together_, we're starting at five thousand dollars."

For one, brief moment, no one made the first bid. The entire crowd was holding its breath, waiting for that one daring person who would start the auction. It didn't last. Soon people were bombarding the auctioneer with their bids. Even Martha, who seemed so kind and timid, had a stern look on her face and was getting in a bid here and there.

Natasha gazed at the painting. _Charlie Brooke. Together_. If she had been inspired by the city, how did she wind up painting a mysterious couple holding hands at a coffee shop? A coffee shop. Steve said he met with her at Starbucks. If this mysterious artist felt the same way as Steve did, then Natasha would bet Tony Stark's entire fortune that she knew who the people in the painting were.

She waited for a few minutes, when only the real competitors were still bidding. Then she whispered, "Pepper, win the painting."

"What?" Pepper hissed back. "It's going to be impossible! Everyone wants it!"

"Just do it," Natasha muttered. "Trust me!"

Pepper sighed before handing Natasha their number. "If you can win it, I'll pay for it. But I don't think they're going to give in."

Natasha was determined, though. As soon as it was down to the last three people viciously raising the bid, she joined in. Not long after, one of the others gave up, and a few minutes later when the price had been raised to over four hundred thousand, so did another.

But the last competitor, a man with silver-grey hair and a finely tailored suit, wasn't going to give it up. Natasha snuck a couple glances at him. She decided he was a private collector. Someone with a lot of money in their bank account. A person who would be hard to beat.

"Four ninety seven!" the auctioneer called. The man hesitated briefly before countering Natasha's bid. It was something he'd done in other auctions. Pretend to be unsure before throwing himself back into the fight, startling his competition. A good tactic, of course. Just not good enough to fool the Black Widow.

For three more minutes, they countered bids back and forth. Finally, the man gave up. "Five hundred and nineteen thousand, sold!" the auctioneer called. "Thank you all for coming tonight, and please remember next week, same time and same place. You can collect your winnings at the table."

Next to her, Pepper exhaled. Natasha looked over at her. "Natalie," she said carefully, "Did you just spend half a million dollars on a painting by a local artist?"

"Yes. Yes I did."

Pepper shook her head. "Oh, God, Tony's going to just _love_ that."

"Pepper, there's plenty more money where that came from," Natasha said, standing. Pepper stood as well, and the two of them followed Martha over to the table.

The man who had fought against Natasha was there already, taking three of Charlie's paintings, wrapped in brown paper to protect them from the elements. "Well," he said. "I'd ask to buy _Together_ from you. But I don't think you would say yes."

"I wouldn't," Natasha agreed. Pepper started to write checks to pay for their winnings. The man's eyes flicked down to the check. Natasha cleared her throat, and he looked back up at her.

"Sorry. I'm Sebastian Crane, private collector," he said, shaking her hand.

"Natalie Rushman, representative for the Stark Museum of Modern Art," Natasha said. His eyes widened slightly. She ignored it. "We've been looking for new pieces by local, undiscovered artists to add to the collection," she continued. "We saw Miss Brooke's_ Together_, and Miss Potts simply couldn't go home without it."

Pepper glanced up at Natasha, a questioning look in her eyes, but said nothing.

"Miss Potts? _The_ Miss Potts, of Stark Industries?" Sebastian said, his eyebrows travelling further up his forehead. "Interesting. I didn't think Stark was interested in art."

"Tony isn't, I am," Pepper said, signing her check with a flourish.

"Well, I can't say Miss Brooke is undiscovered. Not by the art community, at least," he sniffed. "She's done at least a hundred paintings so far and has taken the world of private collectors and curators by storm."

"Oh, you misunderstand, Mr. Crane," Natasha said, smiling. "Our goal isn't to make Charlotte well-known, it's to display her art to the world. She might be taking the world of artists and critics by storm, but what about the world beyond that? Everyone has heard of artists like Monet, Picasso, and da Vinci. They're the greats, they've gone down in history for their work. We're trying to make history by taking the talent the world has now and making these new artists the Monets and da Vincis of this era."

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. "Noble," he said. "The world will never forget the greats of the past, you know."

"But if we don't give them the chance," Natasha countered calmly, just as in the auction, "they won't remember the greats of now."

* * *

><p>Steve walked into the main room at the sound of shouting. "Half a million dollars, for <em>that<em>?" Tony exclaimed.

"This painting is a lot nicer than some of the things you've bought for that much," Pepper said reasonably.

"Honey," Tony said, sounding pained. He took her gently by the shoulders. "It's a picture." Steve saw Natasha roll her eyes.

There were small statues on the coffee table, and a few paintings propped up on the couches. A forest landscape, an abstract that made Steve's head hurt to look at, and – "Is that a picture?" he asked, confused.

"See? Even Cap knows what's up," Tony said proudly, as if that settled everything.

Natasha smiled at him mysteriously. "Actually, it's a painting by a really talented artist. It's hyperrealism. I just wish I'd been able to talk to the guy who brought it in so we could get more work like this, but he slipped out before the end of the auction."

"Oh come on, you're just making things up now!"

"Tony, calm down," Pepper scolded.

"Steve, come here. Take a look," Natasha said. Steve walked over and crouched to look at it. It was a nice sized painting, two by two and a half feet, at least. It was so realistic, Steve thought it was a black and white picture.

"Wow," he said. "It looks real."

"That's what I thought, until I saw what they paid for it! Seriously, who pays half a million dollars for a picture?"

"Tony, it's a painting. Please," Pepper said.

They continued bickering like an old married couple, not paying any attention to Steve and Natasha. "It's worth a lot more than that," Natasha said in a low voice.

"How so?" Steve asked.

Wordlessly, she pointed to the corner of the picture, where the artist had signed their work. "It's called _Together_ by Charlotte Brooke," she said. Steve read the name on the canvas and felt his heart skip a beat.

"Charlie."


End file.
